What is your poetry?

Poetry communicates what nothing other than poetry can. We all have those unspoken stories, the resounding silence and the brilliance of darkness that defy the structures of prose. Some of us can have poetry to speak for us, like Suheir does. Some of us do not have it and read it to know that someone else has spoken for us.

Leonard Cohen said, 'Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.'

How well is your life burning? How much ash did it gather? What is your poetry?

Jun 17 2013:
My poetry is in one of my poems- 'I am still alive" it goes like this:

I Am Still Alive

I am at my learning stage
will be learning and experimenting all the way
Don’t judge me as a success or a failure
I am yet not complete
I am still alive

Don’t record my journey I have traveled
or will be traveling
Record the way I have traveled
and developed myself as a tourist
Don’t judge me what I have seen
or what is still unseen
I am yet not complete
I am still alive

I have seen the rise and a deep fall
tried to rub the past from my canvass
but impression was there on the great wall
Don’t judge me by those sketches
by the colours and marks on the wall
I am yet not complete
I am still alive

I am evidence of many miracles
read many springs and many falls
yet everyday something surprise me
play with me, make me child
Don’t judge me with my tears
with feel of many smiles
I am yet not complete
I am still alive

If still you want to judge me
judge me by love I spread
the way I touch the lives
The moments of my awareness
The depth and thinking high
Though I am yet not complete
Though I am still alive

Jun 16 2013:
She calls us undefined friends
Because a label would undermine things
The minute you tie strings you become
Highly strung
Trying to say the right things
And what started off with drums often ends with violins

Jun 12 2013:
My poetry is the songs I write and construction projects. Creating something new from an emotion or need fills me with delight and can keep me high for several hours or days. There is rhyme and fluid motion to building stuff that people that do not build do not understand.

Poetry is not just written or spoken words and that can be a fence or wall that prevents people from experiencing it. A poet can describe a forest or mountain beautifully but if it does not inspire you to visit a forest or mountain it is wasted.

Jun 12 2013:
I appreciate your poetry. You are right, it doesn't have to be written words. I hope you have noticed I did not go by the formal meaning of poetry.
As a civil engineer I can also appreciate your poetry in construction projects. Poetry, in a sense is a construction too.
Thanks. :)

May 27 2013:
I am so happy to have found this conversation. Thank you Pabitra. My life moves so unpredictably, that it takes poetry to provide the rudder needed to at least give me some sustaining direction.

Here is a poem I am working on. I wrote much if it in the car, heading to Yale University, thinking about the week that lay ahead of me and the fact that I would soon be immersed in a child's world and asked to lead it. Yale is ensconced in the city of New Haven, a city that lives in a parasitic relationship with the university. I wouldn't want to live there...

This poem is not about anything in particular, just thoughts I am having....

What should we do?
Who will arrive and take us through the eye of the storm?
The quiet storm that drags us on the glacial slide back to the sea?

Who hurls the rocks that rain down on us
From some infinitesimal spot in the cosmos?
Who will harvest what blooms in the unattended garden
To give us nectar or death by hallucination?

Who?
We wait. We listen. We feel the void
And it aches for filling.
Within our limits we imagine a god
In our image, a god that gives us nothing
To hold onto as the storm descends - save our freedom of choice.
In all religions there is a sadness that anchors the faith-filled against the storm.
We tell ourselves to be brave,
Stay inside the arms of gospel truths,
Burn our fires, collect our ashes
To spread amongst the garbage and the flowers
To cast back into the sea that bore us
Or place in a jar by the door.
Who? Who is it for?

Truths, like the patterns in a child's kaleidoscope,
Dance into oblivion.
The men are useless eunuchs
Victims of their own violence
Knowing yet not knowing that
Peace, at least, can be found
In the arms of a woman.

Staring out to sea
Her soft skin moistens
As if the very womb that begat her
Has come to take her back
And release her again on another shore.
What should we do when she arrives?

May 22 2013:
Poetry, like fiction and the other arts, is a cooperative creative venture: the poet weaves his/her magic carpet of words, and the reader creatively transforms this pattern into new feelings, thoughts, emotions, ideas ... The great poets are the ones who are able to evoke such creative participation by the reader. And the reader must be prepared and willing to enter into the poem, not to divine the poet's meaning, but to create the poem's meaning to oneself. Without a creative reader the poem is only half created.

May 20 2013:
I think you are spot on with your description of how poetry communicates what nothing else can.

As a poet, myself, I am continually drawn to writing poems that help me articulate felt but unsaid ideas and emotions. Reading your question, I was reminded of Seamus Heaney's Personal Helicon: "I rhyme / To see myself, to set the darkness echoing." and Emily Dickinson's wonderful quote: “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?”

In times of crisis, I have found more comfort and solace in poetry than anything else. Poetry is a place I return to out of love as much as necessity.

And as a little boy we were greatly influenced by our mothers.
We ask our mama’s where did we come from?
And, what is love?
Very often we tell mama we want to marry a girl just like her.
Then, just like that, we are no longer little boys
But grown up men,
And yet, we still are little boys in our heart
Especially when we want to be the hero for the woman we love.
It seems almost impossible, to us men, that a woman can say,
“I don’t understand men.”
Because, we men are very simple
And our mothers trained us.
As little boys, we cry just as hard as little girls,
Perhaps louder and more often,
And yet, as we grow—
Big boys don’t cry
Except in our hearts, but we don’t show it.
How can it be that women don’t understand us?
All we want to do is please them and make them happy.
When we see a woman we desire and want,
We immediately become afraid that we will be rejected.
Some of us can’t bear the thought of it.
Others of us just pretend and hide our fear.
Oh how often I have fallen apart inside my heart
And how many times I’ve hidden the fear?
Oh how often I wondered whether or not I am even lovable?
And yet, I continue on—
Looking for the success to overcome my many failures
And hoping I am not laughed at or made fun of
Because I don’t know whether or not I can bear it?
Oh mamma, where are you?
I feel so alone and afraid so often.
My tears are everywhere, and nobody even notices.

Jun 17 2013:
Thank you :). I think many people can relate. The basic idea is a pondering upon the alternative roads of livelihood that have been extinguished by hesitating excessively. The funny thing is how we justify the decision to stall by being afraid of the consequences as they are seen from our current point of view - as if we really did have full control of our destinies and hadn't been the victims of the recurrent ambushment of serendipity.

Jun 7 2013:
For those who aspire to learn the universe
Or even join humans at the rank elite
You must simply have the wisdom
To know your moment
And gracefully watch it flee
Knowing all that you can say is
I was a part of it
You were a part of it faithful dog
We were a part of it all

"And after a long time
the boy came back again.
"I am sorry, Boy,"
said the tree," but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone."
"My teeth are too weak
for apples," said the boy.
"My branches are gone,"
said the tree. " You
cannot swing on them - "
"I am too old to swing
on branches," said the boy.
"My trunk is gone, " said the tree.
"You cannot climb - "
"I am too tired to climb" said the boy.
"I am sorry," sighed the tree.
"I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry...."
"I don't need very much now," said the boy.
"just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired."
"Well," said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
"well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest."
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy."

May 28 2013:
My life is burning but too much of the ash is choked in me and only as the ash builds up do some clouds spew out of my pen and my mouth. My poetry is a piece of my voice, and so much of my scream is silence.

May 28 2013:
ah, I've just come away from a best ever Leonard Cohen Concert a few weeks ago. I can feel him speak the words.
What is my poetry? a near 40 year Haiku'ish stateMend of which we still have most of the last 20 years worth, A painting of thought, a play with words, a puzzle and tEase of purrceptions, and oft a hearty laugh ere figuring out which side is up an then. it what you get for being upside down and backwards well as revolting from every norm and yes, SPArk off By Cohen's words near 40 years ago, Who he to tell me we's not to flutter N fly as we puzzle and play the strings of well being , which has just begun sing in mind to yet another Christmas Carol . I swear the universe wants all those Christmas Carols rewrit, i just never get more than the first couple of lines. . hopefully to ignite the light years down on earth
Attended a workshop, 45 minute talk on having her pieced rejected, 4 times at it just wasn't quite right. . fed up, handed the first one back in. . .Just right this time. What ? catch the momend and let it go.
then a bring 15 copies for our go over. ? what? I just took seven years to put me back together the secod time, and that not counting the first 7 Which were spoke of in Annie Murphy Paul's video on the long lasting effects of children mothers of who were pregnant with them as the war broke out and the effects of the famine on the children.
What she did not go into are the shock waves of the 180 loaded bomber blanketing the land and skimming over the house tops night after night after night after night. twas only in 97 we learned why we frazzle at the sound of lawnmowers well as any which sounded like automatic riffle fire gave us nightmares. as we drove away from where we went tearing through the memoryes we didn't know we had. I do no call my notes poetry. poets is dutch for polish, and I've never polish my notes into poems, though I am said to wax poetically. They are in fact, an impregnable wall or words about my sense of being.

May 26 2013:
Only the private is holy; the soft light
On the yellowing page of a book, the print
Legible as stars on the open page of the sky
Or the languid letter you write at midnight to a faraway
Friend, stern only to timorous sleep. Do you think
Jesus was director of a philanthropic foundation?
Or Buddha the babbling, balding, amiable president of an NGO?
Beyond the incense and flywhisks of those
Gaunt keepers of salvation, their Lofty Holinesses, the Most Ancient and Supreme Guardians of the Truth,
They have escaped their disciples, cool
as clouds.
There is more in half an hour’s indolence
Than in galloping away after the grail.

May 25 2013:
Poetry is something that has to do with my thoughts. I often find myself rhyming my sadness, resentment or pain. Most of the time I don't want to do it, because not on purpose, but i DO cut myself with a sharp knife of memories or presumptions...I understand that I have a power of putting words in my head into a particular order, a beautiful order, but it frightens me, because I often create poems that make me cry.

May 26 2013:
My personal experience is that poetry does not happen for me when I am content, happy or euphoric. It only happens when I am bothered with life and see it through an unrest of mind. Poetry is no spirituality for me.
I find it prophetic that your life needs to burn to produce the ash that is poetry - not embalmed and glorified. So, yes, poetry may demand tears. Tears are equally beautiful as smiles.

Time is of the essence of being
as every moment is precious,
time is indeed precious for every moment
for without time precious moments
just wouldn’t be. No more precious
moments, what I thought that would be
to think to be without these precious
moments of time. Oh what I life we have
with these precious moments of time that
give so much joy in life. Time is indeed of the
essence of joy, what a time to be in the essence
of time itself for time gives so much for us
to enjoy, this is the true essence of time.

May 21 2013:
Pabitra, my dad listened to a lot of Leonard Cohen. That quote brings back good memories.

It's hard for me to say, whether the achievements in my life have produced ash... I'd certainly like to think so!
I think, my poetry is my children. They are products of my genes (and my husband's, obviously), but very much unique individuals, with their own thoughts, feelings, opinions.
If the virtues and traits I hold dear are absorbed and practiced by them, I would consider that evidence that my life was well-burnt...!

May 21 2013:
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

May 21 2013:
Ooooo I am blind of poetry.I don't know how I love those poetries once I read them at first sight.I think they hide in my body deeply,once I pump into them,shinning out loud I couldn't help loving them more than I do:).Here is one of my favorite poetry:
I am willing that it is a torrent --Petofi Sandor(《我愿意是急流…》-----裴多菲·山陀尔)

I am willing that it is a torrent , 我愿意是急流，
the river in the mountain , 山里的小河，
pass the rock on the rugged mountain path. 在崎岖的路上、岩石上经过……
Only my spouse It is a small fish, 只要我的爱人是一条小鱼，
swim happily in my spray. 在我的浪花中快乐地游来游去。

I willing neglect woods,我愿意是荒林，
two sides in river,在河流的两岸，
to a burst of blast,对一阵阵的狂风，
Fight bravely勇敢地作战……
Only my spouse只要我的爱人
It is a bird Dense in mine Make the nest among the branch Pipe.是一只小鸟，在我的稠密的树枝间做窠（kē）鸣叫。

I am willing that it is the ruins,我愿意是废墟，
on high and steep mountain and rock,在峻峭的山岩上，
this ruin mourned in silence does not make me dejected 这静默的毁灭并不使我懊丧……
Only my spouse It is the blue and green blue and green Chinese ivy,只要我的爱人是青青的常春藤，
along my bleak and desolate volume,沿着我荒凉的额，
climb up by holding on to and rise on intimate terms with each otherly.亲密地攀援上升。

I am willing that it is the thatched cottage,我愿意是草屋，
in the deep mountain valley bottom, endure the strike of the trials and hardship to the fullest extent on the top of the thatched cottage在深深的山谷底，草屋的顶上饱受风雨的打击……
Only my spouse It is the lovely flame, in my stove,只要我的爱人是可爱的火焰，在我的炉子里，
flash slowly happily .愉快地缓缓闪现。

I am willing that it is a cloud,我愿意是云朵，
it is the grey breaking the flag,是灰色的破旗，
swing too lazy to feel like floatingly in the vast sky ,在广漠的空中，懒懒地飘来荡去，
Only my spouse Coral's the setting sun,只要我的爱人是珊瑚似的夕阳，
draw near me pale face and show bright-colored brilliance.傍着我苍白的脸，显出鲜艳的辉煌。

May 22 2013:
Hi Dear Pabitra Mukhopadhyay:).I got it from "http://baike.baidu.com/view/501055.htm" website.didn't dedicate by anyone.Guess a super fan of peoms who must be an expert in languages.wowoow..maybe not an expert but a group ?thanks:).I read the peom in chinese loud often:) I feel the love is warm and cool.I like it deeply from my heart.

Jun 14 2013:
If I say that this discussion is an hybrid colony of poets then am just voicing out a part of it...
but musing over these lines...is self evident that these are expressions of beautiful minds and that is the heart of it...

am a spoken word artist/poet and i just finished working on a piece which was born out of life little lessons...the piece tells a story of people who have helped - through doing little things - immensely on our path to success or achievements or attainment of great feats.

Please kindly express your thought about this piece...thanks!

LIFTER OF MY FEAT

Framed for fashion
Formed for functions
seldom fashionable
sometimes uncomfortable

especially when imposed feels like wearing another foot

undervalued when priced less
overvalued if described priceless
some say you are old school
for them, new is cool

I guess that makes you classy
like a colourful girly boat
nicely keeping me afloat
under the flood light... Looking sassy

on that red carpet, this common bloke now roll with stars from Lagos
hoping not to get Los(t) in Vegas
“rocking” new Salvatore Feragamo tags
While the Lifter of My Feat lay in rags
Goodluck.
At every ovation, standing beneath
but together we toiled the earth

Jun 14 2013:
You may be interested to know that my native place that is Bengal in India had a tradition of spoken poetry too but added with music. It used to be in the form of a duel between two artists engaged in extempore spoken verse fitted in impromptu music. This art was known as kobigaan (poet's music). Unfortunately it is lost now.

Jun 13 2013:
32 Years ago I graduate from as small, Liberal Arts College in the South/Central-Southwest U.S. ---
I was an English Major (and a few other Majors over the five years it took me to graduate). I was lucky to make it into graduate school.

Here are three of my favorites of all time. All three are about one man's relationship with God. And all three carry forward some very deep and abiding themes. And here's an extra you might find familiar . . .

John Donne
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

"No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...."

For whom the bell tolls a poem
(No man is an island) by John Donne

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

Jun 10 2013:
75 watts gives something alive to the electric plant
It brings the seed from sea to surface
It is turned on and plugged into by me the finger
Who listens to the electric lights
Scream round the world
From the highest Tibet to the lowest see

& I am it's radio wave & it's receiver
And receptor to be touched
I am it's battery, but not it's source
I am the guide but not it's direction
I am the cord. the socket, the sprinkler,
Servant and tender of roots
I am the bystander to the reflex
The speed of sight and light and life
I am the impulse in the daily alive
The breathing exchange reminding
You, I ,We are in search of green skies
The Global Pond. X and Y.

& I think of you as the storyteller
That branch the essence
You are my plant my tree
my earth I love you.

Jun 6 2013:
I have a friend at school who, like myself, enjoys making electronic music, Nine Inch Nails style. Neither of us really "write songs" as our pastime (lyrics are hard), but we do enjoy making little 1 or 2 minute pieces of music that we share with each other. We try to hide little references to different things as well as challenge ourselves in musical theory (he is a music theory student, I'm just an enthusiast) so that we can get better and keep making music.

Jun 2 2013:
Pabitra - Thank you for this conversation! My poetry is my amazing 10 year old daughter, Sarina who has a passion for writing poems. She wrote the following poem:

Poetry can be brilliantly brash and bold,
It too can also be evanescent
Reminiscent of the kindred soul
Which never perishes or deteriorates within
Left unstrung after the battles are fought
Splattered with blood and wounded,
But never fatally injured.
Deserted harshly; left to investigate the complicated mysteries of the universe.
All the thrilling sensations can be condensed into the most cramped of childish curlicue.
Those are the finer pieces of writing because of their eagerness to explore, and the jovial youth,
That nobody can seem to find etched into the weary lines of adult faces.
Poetry- so expansive and generously caring,
Infused with juvenile frustration and zesty attitudes,
Can create the perfect type of literature...
The one that can lighten you when you're suffering,
The type of writing that can amuse and delight you on the loveliest of days.
Poetry is the human spirit, the flighty and brave essence of what we have evolved into,
As kindhearted people with big eyes and open hands,
That may even see the world with sightless eyes yet still acknowledge your presence warmly.
That may even hold out their hands for you to take them and step into your new future.
Poetry is what we have become as human beings,
What has come and what will come.
A mysterious, sweet, clear, and peaceful sound that you can hear if you listen quite intently.
This is the fascinating world of poetry that speaks directly to me.

Jun 2 2013:
Hi Bhavna!
Send my love to Sarina. As a father of an artistically gifted son, I appreciate and understand your joy and other feelings towards your little daughter :)
I am impressed with the enthusiasm and passion that is reflected in her poem. It is a bit long and heavy for a kid, but it is also very normal. I hope you will let her flourish in her poetic expression - just make available to her the wonderful works of so many poets from all across the world.
Please ask her to read this now and 20 years later.

Jun 14 2013:
Thank you for your kind words. Here is another lovely poem Sarina wrote for her favorite teacher.

Fire Of Knowledge

Fine language spawned,
In a brilliant, golden heart like yours,
Is enough a flame kindled by
Passionate knowledge.
It's strong enough to be alit,
Once more by the next strong pupil,
Such as myself.
With such an inspirational spark
And a fire shining bright
Wisdom flourishing is unstoppable
As the next eager person carries the fire.
A mentored pupil so fiercely willing,
To be well educated, to fight for literature; tooth and nail.
Therefore triumphs true, proving the taught ambition,
Of such an immaculate, excellent teacher.
For that reason, my thoughts are layered with gratitude,
As I would repay you over for the many blessings bestowed.
The countless hours battling and absorbing,
Wondering and questioning,
Brainstorming and negotiating,
Were clearly not put to utter waste.
Thank you, my awesome teacher, for all that you've done.